The Loyalist & The Convict
by the.subverter
Summary: Miranda and Jack have found their common ground, now they must try and figure out where they stand and what it means. Follow up to the Convict and the Loyalist. Miranda x Jack
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This was almost named "Awkward Conversations in Elevators" but that's too close to that one movie or whatever. The tone of this story is very different from it's predecessor the very M rated The Convict and the Loyalist. I decided to just do a follow up instead of making Convict a really long story. But this picks up pretty much immediately afterward. Hopefully this will stick with being a Teen rating, as opposed to Convict. And hopefully it makes sense on its own.

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><p>It's a ghost ship. The Cerberus crew on the Normandy is made up of the best of the best. Despite that, on the rare occasion that Miranda exited her office she found their never ending chatter tiresome. She'd often wanted for it to die down altogether. It's unsettling to have her wish granted. The persistent vibrating hum of the ship is eerie.<p>

She stands in the middle of the third level and listens. Where ever the rest of the squad members are, they aren't making a sound. Are they worried? There's next to no time left now. Shepard wants to make a few preparations. Miranda doesn't know how long they'll take. Shepard's playing it close to the chest. Miranda trusts the commander—but she's not sure that the commander ever got around to trusting her.

The lights on the ship blink, dimming before flickering back on. Joker announces over the intercom that EDI is running a few tests. The Illusive Man isn't happy about having her unshackled, neither was Miranda, initially. If she's learned anything through the course of the mission to stop the Collectors, it's to trust the commander's judgment… that it often clashes with that of the Illusive Man and her own is something Miranda will have to resolve on her own. There is no sense discussing her feelings on the matter.

On the subject of sorting out feelings… Miranda takes a seat on a barstool. It's strange to not have Gardner behind it, grousing about something or another. What had she been thinking kissing Jack? The point had been to apologize. She had. The extent of the apology, the polish she'd put on it was unnecessary.

Everything about Jack is wrong. She's uncultured and foul mouthed. She has incontrollable outbursts of violence and a long criminal record. Miranda is still drawn to her. Who would have thought that she'd have the most in common with the black sheep of the Normandy? Her father would be ecstatic.

Miranda pursues her and Jack keeps yielding. Maybe they're only suffering from space dementia. The thought marinates in her mind, trying to draw a smile from her but she's too ill-tempered to find any humor in it. How has Jack not painted the walls with her yet? Jack's volatile. Miranda thinks of their brief kiss in the cold subdeck of engineering. Lightness had been replaced by crushing feeling. Jack had kissed her clumsily in an earnest attempt of reciprocating the kiss Miranda had initiated.

Damn it. Doesn't she have work to do? The joke is on her. What had begun as an experiment born out of pity or boredom has manifested into something she hadn't anticipated. How? She sees everything coming. She sees the end before a beginning has been conceived. She rubs her forehead. Again the daunting, grating thought afflicts her: maybe she's lonely. Maybe she doesn't like the idea of dying alone. If she dies, it's likely the others have fallen. Some consider that romantic and honorable. She dismisses it.

Her inability to understand Jack's motivations is vexing. She knows everyone's angles. Everyone wants something. Niket hadn't. So she'd thought. Jack has never asked for anything. Her body, which Miranda had given her. But that had been an exchange, mutual, unhealthy… tantalizing. Their last conversations had been more promising and the most open Miranda had been about her past and her relationship with her father. Of all the people to share those things with…

Miranda's good at her work. She's good at figuring things out. She isn't as talented with _emotion_. Sometimes people use 'feeling', 'emotion' and 'sensation' interchangeably. Miranda knows sensation—part of what had gotten her into this mess to begin with. She's also adept at 'feeling' tangibly and surmising from others, from their expressions where their interests or thoughts lie. Emotion, on the other hand…

It's possible that being raised by her father has turned her into an emotional cripple. Better to lock it all away then spend all of her time crying about everything. And she did spend a lot of time crying in the beginning. She cried about the pain, the absence of friends, the inability to measure up and the innate knowledge that she was not a wanted child.

She never devoted her energies to people or thought of commitments. She didn't have the time. That was part of it. She could never trust when someone truly wanted her or only wanted an ornament on their arm. Her father can buy anyone. To this day people try to get close to her for her father's sake. It's always been that way so she keeps everyone at more than an arm's distance. It's always been convenient for her and inconvenient for others who regard her as an ice queen.

Her father would despise Jack.

Jack is inconsequential. There are more critical matters at hand. She wonders if the missing crew is alive. There is no way of gauging. They don't have the necessary data to even hazard guesses. Helplessness coils around her like a noose. Why had they all taken the shuttle? Why didn't some of them stay onboard? Maybe some of the crew could have been saved. Guilt hammers her. _They're not dead yet. There's still time._

Maybe, anyway.

There's a blue bottle on the counter and she draws it to her. It scrapes heavily along the top finish. She studies the label. She hasn't heard of it before. It's likely an inferior brand but something the others might enjoy, something that gets the job done. Many of the crew claim to prefer substance over style. Miranda is a firm believer that there can be a good balance of the two. She uncaps the bottle. The heavy scent of liquor wafts to her. She recaps the bottle and returns it to where it was.

There is warm breath on her neck. She turns sharply. Jack, all shadows save for the outline of light from the strips on the ground. Miranda's heart races. She tells herself it is only _because_ of the unexpected presence and not because_ of_ the presence. "You scared me."

"Get that a lot. Least I'm not a Collector."

"They're easier to take out," Miranda's smile is more of a grimace. She's never had difficulty saying the right thing nor has she ever thought of what the 'right thing' is. She's just done it. Clearly that's no longer the case. "I didn't think you left engineering."

"Try not to." Jack looks around the dim level. The lighting makes half of her face look particularly sharp and the other half of it soft and young. "Weird having everything so quiet."

"I never thought you'd miss the crew."

"Didn't say I miss them. Said it's weird. Anyway, it's not like I want those Collector assholes wiping anymore of us out." Miranda nods thoughtfully. "You scared, Cheerleader?"

Miranda considers the question. Scared. She'd never thought that was an option. Now that it's been brought to light… She bites the inside of her lip. "I'm worried. Mistakes have been made. There are things that could have been done differently."

"Coulda, shoulda, woulda. Never helps a damn thing."

"Maybe not. I'm afraid I can't help it."

"You _are _scared."

"I didn't use the word literally." Miranda says with some vexation. Jack's impossible to talk to. Whenever she thinks she can—

Jack slaps her hands down on the counter to either side of Miranda. Miranda's throat constricts. The back of the counter digs into her back. Sitting on the barstool doesn't give her much maneuverability. The situation is absurd. What should be making her heart go unsteady is the threat of the Collectors, the idea of her crew being brutalized. Not Subject Zero getting close. "What is it?" she asks softly. Jack looks at her. Her eyes are dark. Miranda's fingertips light on Jack's hips. Jack presses carefully to her in the next instant. Her body remembers Jack's jagged edges and the heat of their skin when there was nothing between them.

Miranda releases a shaky breath. Jack hesitates. She bows her head. "Just do it." Miranda murmurs anxiously, looking impatient. "We don't have to talk right now. Not if you aren't ready. We—"

Jack's lips feather over hers. Miranda isn't immediately aware that she's been kissed. Miranda's hands travel up her back, to Jack's head. Her fingers curl reflexively but there's nothing for her to grab onto. Miranda draws her closer, parts her lips further. Jack fills her in a way that scares Miranda into thinking she's only been a husk.

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><p>The hate is gradually slipping from her, making her weak. Jack feels like someone else. Hatred is her home, her map. Without it—she's lost, like some crying kid without its blanky. The Cheerleader is an infestation. No one she ever wanted in her head. But there she is.<p>

Jack still kind of wants to kill her. Might suck for a bit, some part of her might regret it but in the long run it'd be better. It'd be easier. Shit would make sense again. The Cerberus Bitch was supposed to be a good hateful fuck and nothing more.

Jack winces. Something's changed. She doesn't like it. She arches her back on the cot to stretch. She's got to get her head in the game. Collectors are dead. Still got the bruises to prove it. What next, the Reapers? Who cares about that shit now? She can take a breath. The galaxy can save its own ass for the next while. Wasn't the plan to hijack the Normandy and go kill people? Why isn't that the plan anymore?

It pisses her off.

Jack sighs. It doesn't matter. So what if they've kissed a few times without a hate fuck or any kind of stripping? So what if they haven't called each other names or been condescending for a while? Doesn't mean a damn thing. Except that they're both losing their edge. Jack sits up. She can't get comfortable. "Fuck this," she mutters. Runs a hand over her head.

She'll just go talk to her. Tell her they need to stop messing around or—or figure out what the hell they are. It's fucking with her head. She takes the steps up to main engineering two at a time, ignoring Tali and the other engineers. Sometimes she wishes the Collectors had turned them to goop. She exits engineering into the hallway, viciously punching the elevator button. She waits. Taps her foot. Scratches her arm.

The ship is cold. The elevator is taking too long. What's she doing, anyway? Maybe they should just kill each other and get it over with. The elevator finally arrives and Jack walks in. Garrus is inside. He nods. Then he starts talking to her. "Anything you want to get off your chest?" Jack shoots him a look. What the fuck is he talking about? Why would she want to talk to him? "Back in the day the gang and I used to … talk in elevators. Great way to get to know each other."

"Not interested in getting to know you." He's a Turian. He kills things with a sniper rifle. What else does she need to know? No point in comradery or any of that shit after the mission's been completed. He looks at her. "No offense," she adds more quietly. Fuck! Why is she apologizing to him?

"I never thought you left engineering. Where are you headed to?"

"Not your business." She looks at the button blinking for level three and crosses her arms. What the hell is wrong with the elevator on this ship? She wonders if she should push another button to throw him off the trail. Fuck, what's the point? She can do whatever she wants. She doesn't have to make excuses. She's not an excuses making type. She wants to see the Cheerleader, she'll see the Cheerleader. Not like most people wouldn't assume she's not there to kill her anyway. She glances at Garrus who's opening his mouth again. "Look, just stop talking."

"Right. Well I can see why everyone likes you so much. Real charmer."

Like she gives a fuck if people like her or think she's charming. She bites on her fingernails, her teeth sink too deep. She tastes blood. The button for level three is still blinking. Motherfucker.

Garrus hums something off key. Jack keeps staring at the lit button.

Finally the elevator arrives on the third floor. Garrus nods for her to go ahead but she stays where she stands. Garrus exits. Jack dully hits the button to take her back to engineering.

* * *

><p>Miranda hasn't seen Jack since the defeat of the Collectors, a little over three weeks. The ship is impressive but to suggest that their non-meetings is purely accidental would be a mistake.<p>

Jack is on the other side of the elevator doors when Miranda arrives at the fourth level. Their eyes lock briefly. Jack steps in. They turn their attention to the numerical pad on the elevator. Their hands reach out to it at the same time and withdraw just the same.

This is ridiculous. Miranda steps back and lets the door slide shut noiselessly. "Jack."

"Miranda."

Not 'Cheerleader'? Unexpected. Another brief appraisal and then they look away. A small part of Miranda is amused by their dance, not unlike that mating dance of animals desperate to get the attention of their intended mate. But animals are direct, their actions purposeful. She and Jack, on the other hand… After everything they've done to act like blushing virgins is pathetic and uncalled for. They ought to be adults and talk about it, get it out of the way. She doesn't like wasting time. "Is everything all right?" she asks.

Jack shuffles. She takes a breath and speaks to the elevator floor. "Yeah. I've just… I've been thinking…" her voice is small. She faces the wall.

This is a prime opportunity to tease Jack. Mock, Miranda corrects inwardly before giving up. The Convict and self-proclaimed biotic badass reduced to a stammering girl. Miranda's small smile doubles as a smirk. Still, she can't help but be… charmed by Jack's display of humanity, of vulnerability. Miranda reaches out to touch her—

"Wow." Kasumi's voice. Miranda drops her hand to her side and sees Kasumi materialize against the elevator wall. Miranda makes a mental note to find a way to disrupt her from cloaking on the Normandy. Kasumi's games are only fun for her. "I really need to stop taking the elevator. This is awkward. Here, just…" Kasumi slips her hand between them and pushes the button for the doors to open. Miranda chances a look at Jack who has gone stock-still. "It's my own fault for running around cloaked like that." Kasumi continues. "Old habits die hard. It's good for finding out what's going on though. I think I'll go have a chat with Tali. Good luck with—"

"Just get out," Miranda says sharply. Kasumi does when the doors open, a bounce in her step. How much has she heard? How much does she already know? Damn it. Miranda's usually more careful than this. The defeat of the Collectors does allow for…distractions and technically she has resigned from Cerberus. It isn't easy, however, to just let things fall where they may. She's had a lifetime of experience keeping everything under tight control.

"Can we kill her?" Jack asks. Her cheeks are flushed.

"The mission's done. Go ahead. I'll look the other way." They exchange smiles. Jack's eyes seem to glow with excitement, the thrill of the hunt for the kill. Then she remembers their previous conversation. The shine dies away from her eyes. "What have you been thinking about?" Miranda prompts gently.

"What is this?" Jack asks. Her nervousness is gone. Kasumi's intrusion has filled Jack with the usual self-defense mechanisms and anger. Miranda's look is question enough. "What are we doing?" she clarifies. "I don't date people, Cheerleader. Who knows how to do that? I fuck and run. And you—I'm the butt of your jokes. You're the butt of mine. You can't take me out on your arm. And I'd probably want to kill all those assholes you like spending time with. You wouldn't have me on anything but a leash." Miranda tries not to dwell on the imagery. "We don't even like each other.

"I can think of few people either one of us likes." Miranda smiles wryly. "Normally I'd say that has no relevance in these talks." She bites her tongue. Allows a beat. "This… conversation isn't appropriate for a public venue." Nor was it anything she had in mind to talk about when she'd stepped into the elevator to go down a level. "But… I would like to talk about it." Now she's embarrassed. She glances at Jack who is glaring at the floor again. "If you would," she adds at the last minute. She doesn't know why she says it. She's not sure whose ego she's trying to spare—Jack's or her own. What is she thinking? It's Jack. She looks at her arms, lined with tattoos, the lively veins rising prominently from her olive skin. Miranda involuntarily recalls the force and persistence of those arms.

"Shit. I don't know. I need to think about this."

Miranda nods gravely. "Of course. This isn't anything I've ever had time for." It's easier to make it sound like business. Otherwise she doesn't know how to explain her lackluster dating record. Explaining a series of one night stands throughout the years would sound no more impressive. Well. They had been enjoyable at the time. Certainly more so than these vexing thoughts and awkward elevator conversations. Damn it. She's not one to _have _awkward conversations. Those are for people ill versed in communication.

Jack curls her fingers and then unrolls them. She looks at Miranda. "It's always been about my survival. Me first. I don't know how to give a damn about anybody but myself. Even you said that."

"We've both said a lot of things. Some that we may even regret."

"Can't think of any on my end."

Miranda frowns. Jack can be a bitch. _Naturally, you're considering dating her. Not your brightest solution_. Miranda sighs inwardly. Why even think that word? Dating. It's juvenile. Then again, so is Jack. Miranda thinks that if the Collectors had killed her, her reputation would remain sterling, her record would be unblemished. She knows that EDI is recording this conversation somewhere. The thought of Joker and her giggling about it pushes her to speak. "Regardless of regrets, we can either discuss this at another time or not at all," Miranda says curtly. "Either way, I won't discuss it here."

"Shit. All right. Calm down." Jack is frazzled and pale. Nervous and twitchy. Miranda wonders if she's anxious or in need of a drug fix. "I just… all of this… just freaks me out, okay? Wasn't the deal that we'd have it out, kick each other's ass after all the Collectors were gone? And they are. And now we're here talking about… Doesn't it—isn't—it freaks me out," she says again. She breathes. She exhales. "Are you really cool with all of this?"

"Yes." No. "Whenever there's a problem, small or impossible, I find a way to fix it, to make it work. This could just be… another little experiment." She sees the look on Jack's face, the way she withdraws inwardly at the speed of light, her eyes hardening. Miranda quickly reaches out to take her arm, to pull her back in. "That was poor word choice," she says thinking of how she'd used the word with Jack before. How others have used them both as experiments. "The truth is… I'm probably no better than you at this. Do remember those words, I'm not likely to say them again. Aside from Oriana and Niket," she says more quietly, "I've never formed any attachments." What is she saying? _Attachments?_

"I've gotta think about this," Jack says in a hushed, frantic way.

Miranda releases her. "Very well." Funny. Minutes ago she'd been eager to mock Jack for the blushing virgin routine and now she'd give anything to have her back. Jack's an emotional mess and Miranda is sterile. The combination is either complimentary or mad. Miranda keeps herself in check, despite the storm within. She looks at her. Jack's eyelashes are surprisingly long. Maybe it's only mascara. In the right light, she's even pretty. Miranda wonders what she might have looked like if it weren't for her history. Then again, if not for her history they wouldn't have met. Jack would likely be common and unremarkable. As would Miranda if not for her father's work. "What were you going to say? Before Kasumi interrupted?" It troubles her that she wants to know, it troubles her that her voice is soft around Jack. She misses the sharpness of precision. The fuzziness of ambiguity doesn't sit well with her.

Jack is quiet. Miranda wonders if she heard the question. Jack looks at Miranda and then shakes her head. "Doesn't matter. I'll—I'll talk to you later. Maybe. I don't know." She exits the elevator suddenly. Miranda stays put. A minute later she gives one solid push to the elevator button for level three. There's no reason to stay in engineering.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I took my sweet ass time updating this, didn't I? Truthfully I started this about ten times over and scrapped it each time. I was hoping everyone would forget about it but I kept getting story alerts and _amazingly kind _reviews so I decided what the hell! This is the last installment in this baby and I hope it rings okay. Thanks everyone! Thanks to th1nm1nt for proofing. I hope you guys enjoy it!

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><p>Jack is slumping in the restaurant chair.<p>

Disapproval manifests gingerly on Miranda's face. It's possible that she's self-conscious at being at such an exclusive restaurant in Illium with Jack…dressed the way that she is. Sitting the way that she is. Picking up the silverware and examining it suspiciously the way that she is. This is a mistake. It would be easier if Miranda could order her to sit up and look responsible and not like a heathen.

The perils of dating.

Jack picks up the menu, looks through it, throws it down aimlessly on the table they sit at and repeats. The small candle that burns behind a glass holder between them strikes Miranda as ridiculous. What is she doing? What is she doing here with _Jack?_

Jack takes the menu again, catching it as it begins to slide off the table. She rubs her scalp with her fingers. As if she were chasing away fleas. Miranda stares at her intently. Maybe through sheer willpower she can get Jack to sit up. To look presentable.

"Something on my face, Cheerleader?"

"No." She clamps down on her tongue to keep from saying anything else and has a drink of wine. Jack is anxious and tense. The lines of her muscles show in her thin arms. Her chin is clenched too tightly. The other restaurant attendees look at Jack cautiously. They don't know who she is but they know Miranda. Damn it. She should have done this on the Normandy or some obscure planet—not Illium where they are sure to be monitored and overheard, to be gossiped about.

Jack's attire is questionable and inappropriate in a setting where people are dressed to the nines. Miranda doesn't feel she should address that yet. Perhaps shame will make Jack want to better herself for the next date. Miranda stops herself. The next date? This one's barely begun.

A waiter presents himself at the table. While he doesn't rake in the credits like many of the Illium inhabitants, Miranda is sure that he makes more money than most others in off-world planets. His hair is polished as if with shoe-shine. He's handsome and knows it. He focuses on her and ignores Jack.

Jack notices. "Hey, asshole." She waves the menu at him. "Take your eyes off her tits and take my order."

This is exactly what Miranda had feared would happen. She stands. "Thank you," she says to him, "but we're done here." She strides away from the table at a furious pace. Jack languishes behind her as they leave the restaurant pavilion.

Miranda doesn't slow but Jack catches up with her. "What's your deal? We've been sitting in that glitzy place for over a fuckin' hour now and we bail?" she snorts. "What's the matter, Princess, did I embarrass you?"

"You embarrassed yourself."

Jack shrugs. "Couldn't care less. And he was staring at your tits." She moves over to one of the railings and overlooks the city, the thousands of hover cars that glide and twist through the air, the sea of gleaming buildings rising and falling like tidal waves. "I'm hungry." Her stomach growls in agreement.

Miranda clutches her purse and lets it hang at her side. She's in an elegant black evening dress and with nowhere to wear it. She sets a hand to the railing and takes Illium in. She's always had a fondness for Illium: the architecture, the people, the education, the culture, the endless possibilities available, in some form or another, to those who want it most. Jack prefers Omega. She's told her several times over now. Miranda can't stand Omega. "We should return to the Normandy." It's a pity. She rarely gets to spend time in Illium and the food aboard the Normandy is subpar at best.

"No reason why you can't hang around." Jack folds her arms on the railing, her head bowed. She looks small again, a side effect of when she isn't in a biotic rage. "Shit." She says quietly. "I knew this wasn't going to work out. You think for a minute I could fit into this place?" Jack exhales. Miranda can't see her spine but she can imagine, can remember how the breath would leave her, how the knobs of her spine would lift and release with every breath.

Miranda's touched the back of Jack's neck before she knows it. Her skin is perpetually warm, even on Illium, a colony that has a perpetually air-conditioned feel to it. Jack glances to Miranda and then back at the city.

Miranda takes her hand away. It was easier when it was sex. The mind is trickier to navigate. It's far more complicated than biology, than function. "No. I didn't think you'd fit in for a minute." Now she can't gather whether it was foolish or plain cruel to bring her here. She knew Jack's opinion of Illium. She knew how likely it was that she'd fit in. But she'd still brought her.

"So what? You were expecting I'd change? Get around to liking it? Get real."

She hadn't thought any of those things. The whole trip has been contradictory to all reason and logic. Why had she suggested this? Why had Jack agreed? "This hasn't been my best plan." She admits reluctantly. It's an understatement. "What do you suggest?"

"Someplace that doesn't have building sized wanted posters of me?" She pushes away from the railing and stretches her arms over her head. Miranda hears her bones pop. Jack settles her hands into her back pockets. "Maybe we should forget this and skip to the good shit. Get a room somewhere and fuck all night. Leave it at that. Leave it simple. Keep it simple."

Miranda can think of a dozen hotels off the top of her head. She knows which ones she prefers, which ones have the most spacious rooms and the best commodities, which ones are most exclusive and which ones are priciest. The idea is tempting. It's very tempting. "Is that what you want?" she asks slowly.

Silence. Then a shrug. Jack looks at everything except her.

"Let's get a room, then." Miranda says. She stares at Jack's back that stiffens and seems to shiver. Miranda pulls up her omni-tool. Every press of a key is a disappointment, is a surrendering of her aspirations. Maybe she was only fooling herself. She and Jack are just about the worst idea she can think of. "Everything's ready." Jack keeps her back to her. "A cab will be here shortly."

Jack nods.

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><p>The cab brings them to a place Jack hasn't seen before, a place that isn't in the brochures, some hidden away 'gem'. It isn't like the other buildings in Illium, it isn't pristine and shining: it's hard stone, gothic and dark with rough, menacing angles. Definitely not Asari design. Not the sort of place she'd picture Miranda in. Shit, she isn't sure it's the sort of place she'd picture herself in. But… it isn't bad. Best she's seen in Illium, anyway.<p>

The lighting is artificial, just like the rest of Illium's is but it _looks_ more natural. Not so sterile. Nothing gleams here.

They don't have bags and everything's been taken care of. They take an elevator with black iron wrought gates for doors that ease shut soundlessly. Jack circles her hand around the small poles, the edges of iron cast ivy stabbing into her fingers. She looks at Miranda. Too dressed up to be spending time with her. …But now that she looks at her, both light and dark, she doesn't look to be so out of place after all.

So. They're going to have sex and skip all the dating bullshit. Fine by her. It's the way she wanted it, right? But then what? She steals another look at Miranda. She can't figure out what's going on in her head. It'd be easy enough to take her, press her against a wall, kiss her. Jack didn't see many people in the lobby. She wonders how many people are staying here. This isn't the kind of place the rich assholes in Illium come to see. They've got another thirty floors before they reach their room.

Might as well get started. Might as well do what she's been wanting to do. She steps away from the elevator doors. Miranda looks good tonight. Smells good. Everything about this building is draped in shadows but Miranda's eyes still shine. Her eyes aren't dull brown like hers, not so easy to slip into the darkness. She sees Miranda lift her arm to fidget nervously with her omni-tool. Jack presses the arm down, keeps her fingers wrapped around it before kissing her. She waits for Miranda to say something, do something. Not sure what. Something about protocol or appearances. Same old bullshit.

Miranda closes her eyes and kisses her back. Everything is so goddamn tentative but neither one of them makes a move to change it up.

* * *

><p>"They have room service." Miranda tells Jack. She lounges on a black leather couch, an arm draped along the back, a menu in hand. Her heels rest casually to the side. Jack stands some distance away at the floor to ceiling windows looking out. Rain patters against the glass. Lights glimmer dimly in the distance. "They have steak. You mentioned liking that, didn't you?" Long ago. "I'd question the authenticity of that meal anywhere but here." She looks at the menu. The price is exorbitant, even for Illium. They certainly make you pay for the luxury.<p>

"What do they have to drink?"

"You're not going to get drunk, are you?" She's been around Jack when she's drinking. She has a tendency to become even louder and more violent when under the influence. Or she'll go the other way and withdraw entirely, turning sullen and moody. Moodier. Jack doesn't bother responding. Miranda rises from the couch. The floors are cold, glistening marble. She presents herself beside Jack and extends the menu to her. Jack looks at it but doesn't take it. "The liquor cabinet's over there," Miranda nods her head to the right. "I'm surprised you didn't notice it."

"I don't memorize the floor plan for every place we go to, Cheerleader."

So Jack is calling her that again. They've regressed. "Maybe you should. Be impulsive, if you'd like. I'd rather be efficient." Hadn't they been kissing in an elevator only minutes ago? What's the point in bragging right now? She hasn't been particularly efficient this evening. She can't think of one thing she's done right. It's unlike her to make mistakes and yet she can seem to do nothing else around Jack. "You said you were hungry earlier." Concern sounds too much like anger. She wants to shake Jack and ask her to be reasonable. While she's at it, she can hunt Shepard down and ask her to do things by the book.

"I'd rather have a drink," Jack moves to the liquor cabinet leaving Miranda by the window. Miranda follows her with her eyes, watches her pull out a heavy glass bottle of what might be whisky or rum. Jack takes a handful of ice and dumps it into the glass before changing her mind and dumping it back into the ice bucket. She pours a half glass and takes a long drink. She rubs her forehead. "So, we going to do this?"

"What, in particular?"

"You know why we came here."

"Oh." Right. So that's how it's going to be. It doesn't have to be. She can say no. She doesn't know that she wants to. Is this what's going to become of them? Fuck buddies? She can do better. She never has but she can. She stares out the rain stained windows. Raindrops hit the glass violently but she can't hear a sound. It's regrettable.

She joins Jack at the liquor cabinet but can't decide on a drink. Does she want the burn of whisky or something smoother like rum? Maybe some vodka, pure and distilled, clear and barely there but intoxicating all the same. The question is pressing but she can't decide. Jack is ready to take another drink. Miranda covers Jack's hand with her own. "Don't," she says. Jack's fingers loosen around the glass. "Let's…not do this."

"What are we doing?" A current runs in her words.

Miranda reflects. "I know why you don't like Illium. Everything here is artificial. Maybe it's fitting that we're here. We're both manufactured, engineered. We were paid for in credits, in blood."

"Nothing natural about us. What are we supposed to do about it? You think not having a drink is going to make a difference?"

"Do you really want to continue your life in a haze? After what was done to you?" Maybe it's not an accusation Miranda has a right to make. It was Cerberus, yes, she can admit that now, that turned Jack into what she did. Can she blame Jack's poor choices on her? Can she let her coast on Cerberus' back as an excuse for the rest of her days? Or does she have a right, as does Jack, to demand better? To expect better?

"Easy for you to say."

"It isn't. I've lost the only organization that ever gave a damn about me." Even if you give something up willingly it's still a loss. "I've only excelled and thrived at an organization that…" she swallows her words. "Our pasts aren't the point. Maybe they were at one time." It was what had brought them together. But it isn't enough. "Eventually we have to focus on other things."

"Like what? A future? My future? Your future? Our future?" She says the last bitterly and pulls her hands away from Miranda's. She finishes the whisky and pours another glass. She offers it to Miranda who shakes her head. "Ever get drunk?"

"No."

Jack nods, takes a small drink, pushes the glass away. "We forget about the past, what do we have? You and me," she clarifies, bows her head, swears. She leaves the drink and sits on the armrest of the couch. Miranda picks up her glass. She has a drink of whisky but doesn't find her there. "All this shit made a lot more sense when we were stuck on a ship and it was the end of the world. That shit's over now though. You can go back to…being 'perfect' and I can go back to killing everything in sight."

She doesn't explain that everything isn't over, that there are still Reapers. That's beside the point. "You're better than that."

"What if I don't want to be? I mean, give me a break. Look at tonight. You actually think I can function in the real world, pass for a normal person? Can't do that. Wouldn't know how to start. Where to start." Jack looks up at Miranda when she approaches. "I'm not gonna let someone change me into who they think I should be. Been there, done that. Made me into a bad ass but it isn't how I'd have picked for things to go down."

"Neither would I." She sets a hand on Jack's head. Her hair is longer than it's ever been since she's known her though Miranda doubts it's more than a quarter inch. Her thumb smoothes along the soft hair. She doesn't know why it took her so long to notice that Jack isn't wearing her typical dark lipstick, her lips are a lighter, more natural color now.

"What the fuck are we doing here?" Jack looks around. "This your version of squatting?" Her indignant words are offset by a faltering, mocking grin. "This isn't your kind of place. I'm not your kind of girl."

"I've never had the opportunity to learn what my type of anything is. I've had data and specimens, I've tested proficiencies and determined excellence but I don't know that I've ever learned my preferences. Not without having them told to me or by returning what was expected. I suppose you could say that my directive has always been to find the optimum solutions. The best match. It likely isn't anyone like you." Miranda says. Her hands draw down to Jack's shoulders. Jack looks up at her before remembering she doesn't have to. She flings Miranda's arms away.

"You think I want you?" she snarls.

"I have no idea," Miranda says helplessly. She smiles meekly. She has never been good enough. No one has ever wanted her for who she is. Who is she? Does she even know? She knows her value in credits and in data. She knows her importance in a mission to save the universe. A mission, that for the time being, is completed. Now what? Outside of that, what is her worth? Amongst 'ordinary' people, what is her value? Does she have any? "But I wish you would." Can't she do better than this? 'Better' is relative. She wonders if she will ever escape her father's shadow.

Miranda looks down. In the darkness it's hard to see Jack's tattoos but she can see the shape of her fingers and feel the texture of her skin as it brushes against her hand. Rough but strong. "Any of this supposed to make sense?" Jack asks.

"I don't know. You complicate everything." She accuses. "You aren't what I thought you'd be." Their fingers lace. Jack's tightening of their fingers feels like a tug. Miranda knows that it isn't impossible to stay away from her. That would be hyperbole. It is, however, exceedingly difficult. She kisses Jack before she can rationalize or bring reason into it. She left reason and logic long ago. All she wants now is the heat of Jack's mouth, the strength of her arm circled around her, the feel of Jack's hand sliding up her leg to her thigh, the sound of the fabric of her dress being loosed and dropping to her feet in a puddle.

_I want you. _

She doesn't say the words aloud. It isn't a matter of pride. Speaking would hinder her from showing Jack in every other way. Her kiss is possessive, a plea for acceptance, an offering.

Jack accepts it all.

* * *

><p>The bed's huge. Canopied like a cathedral. It's still raining outside. It's still dark. Miranda is asleep next to her. Freaks her the fuck out. She's never done this. Not with Miranda. Not with anyone. Not like this. They hadn't fought firsthand. That's usually what really gets her going. The thrill of the hunt, the climax of the kill.<p>

There's no talking. There's never any talking. Not supposed to be any talking. There's never been any of this. They didn't draw blood. Neither one of them's got marks on them. Jack tries to steady her breath. Facing off against the Collectors wasn't half as terrifying as this shit. She wonders how people do this, how they live like this, without the fight, without the kill, without the power. She's got it still, the juice moving through her but she hasn't used it in weeks. What good is it against this?

It's strange. Not to want to kill things as bad. Not to be so fucking angry all the time. Not to want to hit the cheerleader.

Jack touches Miranda's shoulder. It's cold but Miranda breathes softly. Jack slides closer, her lips close to Miranda's skin. She doesn't know what it is she'd meant to do. Kiss her shoulder? She doesn't do that. She ducks her chin, exhales softly. She can't help but touch Miranda's face cautiously. Funny. She'd never thought Miranda could look that way.

She pulls the blanket over Miranda's shoulders and leaves the bed. She dresses minimally. She's in a daze. None of this makes sense.

She's starving. She orders a steak. Calls back down and orders another one for the cheerleader. She doesn't want to eat it, Jack will have two. Calls back again and thinks of the fruitiest alcohol beverage she can think of, champagne, in case the cheerleader is thirsty. Calls back, to an aggravated attendant and changes the champagne to wine. What Miranda had been drinking at the restaurant before she'd fucked it all up. Or maybe water would be best. Shit. Refrains from calling again.

She sits on the couch nervously. She thinks. Of how things were before, of how things are now, of how things could be. She thinks of her.

Miranda appears minutes later, a blanket wrapped around her. She makes it look like a toga. Bitch. Jack thought only assholes in vids could pull that shit off. She takes a seat next to Jack.

"Hi." Miranda says. She smiles tiredly; her voice has an edge of sleepiness to it.

Jack is flustered, jarred by an unexpected thrill that runs through her. She smiles without knowing it. "Hey."

Maybe they can figure this shit out after all. They both talk long enough, maybe they'll hit something. Maybe it's worth figuring out. Maybe Miranda's worth figuring it out for. Maybe they both are.


End file.
